Chaos Theory
by Be26
Summary: The only relation this has to the show is the basic premise of ordinary humans displaying extraordinary powers. Equally, no characters portrayed here have any relation to the show.


**Chapter I: Inception**

This world is one of chance and random events, where a single action can have thousands or millions of ramifications far beyond anyone's comprehension. Just as a butterfly flapping its wings in Texas can cause a tornado in Tokyo, so can a young man oversleeping in London cause hundreds of deaths in Paris. To attempt to follow these strands to find the first cause of an action is nothing more than a fool's errand, one not even the world's greatest geniuses can truly unravel. That doesn't stop them from trying, though – for years, scientists have been working tirelessly in an attempt to unlock the secrets of the human genome. The Holy Grail of genetics, successfully mapping the genome would theoretically enable us to cure all manner of diseases in one fell swoop. It could even go further, allowing the creation of cures to the ailments previously thought a death sentence – AIDS, for instance. It could even, say the world's conspiracy theorists, go further than that; if the genes that govern strength, agility, endurance could be located and adjusted (for example, tweaking a particular pattern of genes to increase the potential ceiling of a person's strength level), it could create supersoldiers, men designed to fight wars from birth.

But what if superhumans already exist? What if there existed people for whom these mysterious genes already were turned on? They could provide the sort of insight needed to make that final jump, to be the final catalyst needed to crack open human DNA and allow it to be toyed. But that, if anything, is to idyllic a view, even naïve to believe that these superhumans would not be spirited away and turned into little more than guinea pigs. What does all this have to do with chaos theory, though? It's simple - in a world of terrorism, where thousands of fringe groups all jostle for position, it might only take on tiny event to reverberate through the future and cause Armageddon. Just like the "random chance" argument atheists are so fond of using to support their claims against God's existence, this world is a world of chance, in which almost every possibility can be played out.

What creates these genetic abnormalities? Nobody knows.

---

**Eric Donahue**

**New York City, New York**

The man sitting in the beaten-up office looked nervous, almost the very definition of the word – his brow gleamed with a thin sheen of sweat, he wrung his hands over and over, he sat on the edge of the battered chair and stared with a hopeful gleam into the eyes of the man sitting across from him, Eric Donahue.

"Mr. Samuels, you've missed this fortnight's payment," he said, steepling his fingers in an irritating manner. "You know as well as anyone that Mr. Costa does not appreciate late payments...I've done my best to convince him that you are not a credit risk, but I fear he's growing impatient."

"N-no, no," stuttered Mr. Samuels hastily. "I can make the money, I just need a little more time."

"Patience I have, Mr. Samuels," smiled the loan shark. "But I have to report to Mr. Costa in a week's time and if I don't have the money, then I have to explain why. And if I have to explain why, then I have to mention your name. And you wouldn't want that, I suppose."

"God no, please, I just need some more time!"

The loan shark leant back in his chair, re-steepling his fingers. "I have to report to Mr. Costa in one week. You have three days to get the twenty-five hundred to me, that's the best I can do. Goodbye, Mr. Samuels."

Mr. Samuels scrambles to his feet, seemingly grateful for his added time. "Thank you, Mr. Donahue, I'll be back here on Wednesday." He offered the loan shark his hand, and Eric just ignored it as he left.

_"Funny, you'd expect a Jew to be better with his money_," he thought, smirking and taking a sip from the gin-laced coffee sitting in front of him. His cellphone buzzed into life with an annoying, shrill beeping; nonetheless, he waited his customary four rings before flicking it open. "Donahue."

"Mr. Donahue, glad to finally catch you at the office," came the silky voice through the receiver, prompting Eric to sit up straight in his chair.

"Mr. Costa, I'm sorry, I didn't realise you'd be-"

"-be calling you? Eric, Eric, why would you realise something like this?" replied the mob boss. Even though he didn't mean it, his reputation preceded him and gave his words an undertone of menace. "I simply wanted to talk."

"Er, well...yes, sir. Erm, I believe I'm supposed to bring you the money next week."

"This has nothing to do with your specific business, Mr. Donahue, this is to do with the entire operation. You know that we've had some run-ins with the Fitzgeralds lately, and I believe the Russian Mafiya are interested in our territory as well."

"The Mafiya!" exclaimed Eric, reasonably shocked. The Mafiya's presence in New York City had only ever been a small one, and there were few signs that they were interested in upsetting the delicate balance; the underworld had become a zero-sum equation, where any gain from one party would be equalled to the losses from another. Like a colossal game of Risk, the Mafiya would only be able to make headway if another gang lost territory and, evidently, Mr. Costa had concerns.

"Yes, the Mafiya. We need to foster good relations with them, but I believe they are planning some form of assault. You need to be on your guard, and as from tomorrow you will be accompanied by a pair of bodyguards." Eric was under no illusions of his position in the Costa family, and he couldn't help but be surprised that he warranted protection.

"Well, thank you, sir. Shall we still go ahead with the meeting next week?"

"Yes. To postpone something like that would make us seem weak, afraid. And that is not something I intend to do." The line abruptly went dead, and Eric closed the phone, dropping it onto the desk. As he took a comforting sip from his cup, his next appointment knocked on the door.

"Ah, Mr. Aaronson. Come in, have a seat."

---

**Leslie Jones**

**London, Ontario, Canada**

Everything is supposed to happen for a reason, but you'd have a tricky time convincing Leslie Jones this was true. A nerd by nature, he'd gone through many of the crude tortures high school sees fit to mete out on the socially outcast - missing classes through being stuffed into a trash can, the regular loss of his lunch money whenever somebody higher up the food chain than he was hungry and had forgotten their own, having three sets of homework assignments to do as well as his own, he'd been through almost everything the limited minds of David R. Miller High School's upper class came up with. Today, however, saw a new addition to their repetoire - a rather unpleasant one. Leslie had gleaned from one of his Biology textbooks that frostbite didn't set in until the temperature dropped below minus-15 degrees, so he wasn't in any physical danger. It was just the humiliation of being taped to a flagpole that made him feel as bad as he did. Almost naked but for his underwear, Leslie shivered as he looked around; he'd been taken by a couple of football players, stripped down and taped up just after his AP Physics class had ended, and almost everyone had gone home for the day. The students had left, most of the teachers had taken their work home, all that was left were the janitors.

"Oh dear, what's happened here then?"

Leslie turned his head to spot one of the janitors laughing at his predicament. "Can you just get me down from here?"

"Sure, absolutely. Just hold still." The janitor began to slice the duct tape with a craft knife he took from his pocket.

_"Why does he have a knife?"_ Leslie thought, slightly nervous but mainly relieved he was getting down; there was a light rain beginning to fall, and soon enough it'd turn to snow. He winced from the cold as he dropped onto the freezing ground, his socks had been thrown with the rest of his clothes into a holly bush sitting nearby and his bag had joined them later.

"Have you got the time?" Leslie called, reaching into the bush and wincing as the leaves jabbed his bare flesh. The janitor looked at his watch, calling back at him. "It's twenty to!"

"Shit!" he shouted, pulling on his shirt hastily and scooping his books back into the bag. "What time does the bus go?"

"Half-past, man, you've missed it by now."

"Shit!" Leslie shouted again, looking desperately for his other shoe. "The cunts stole my shoe! What can they do with one shoe!" Stuffing his other one into his bag, he stalked away knowing he had a long walk ahead of him. The school was out of the way, and it was rare to see someone walk, with the free bus service and a lot of parents being happy to drive their offspring to and from school. In his socks, the wet roads were going to be hell, and the new snows weren't making it any easier.

He cut a sorry figure as he walked down the side of the almost-empty roads, the occasional car or truck storming past as the weather got colder and colder; it began to ice over just as he got near home and his feet were almost completely numb. Leslie was almost tempted to run the distance just to get into the warmth, but something stopped him. Maybe it was the reactions of his parents, his mother clucking over him like a hen, his father shaking his head disapprovingly that his son had turned out to be such a pushover. His brother would make fun of him again, calling him a sissy. Leslie was so caught up in his own thoughts that he didn't even notice the truck up ahead that had skidded on a patch of ice. Jaywalking is a crime for a reason, it's to stop people crossing streets without paying attention - Leslie learned that first hand when the truck slammed into him at speed.

---

**Sam Frost**

**San Diego, California**

It may be a generalisation, but drug addicts don't usually have many redeeming characteristics. The one thing the majority of them are nice enough to do, however, is keep to themselves mostly; they might use drugs, but at least they don't project their highs and their lows on others. You might get the odd addict who'll beat up others to get money for their next fix, but even they're rare exceptions to the rule. But the universal thing is that an addict's addiction does not preclude destruction in and of itself. Sam Frost's condition, thusly, technically isn't an addiction.

He wouldn't agree.

---

**Datuk Abdullah Harris**

**Tampa, Florida**

"Mr. Harris," greeted the doctor sombrely, nodding to Datuk as well. "I have some bad news. I'm afraid that your wife's mastectomy was not completely successful. We were able to remove a large percentage of the cancerous cells, but I'm afraid that the cancer has spread to her right lung as well."

Sam Harris closed his eyes, while Datuk looked down at his sleeping adoptive mother. Ashley Harris had been diagnosed with cancer just over three months ago, and going into surgery had been the second option; the cancer wasn't responding properly to the chemotherapy, initially only holding it within her right breast, and then recently spreading further.

"What are our options?" asked Sam, eyes still closed. He'd been through this situation before ten years ago, when his own mother died from the disease, and his manner was that of…almost resignation, as though he knew how things were going to end already. Datuk, thankfully, had been too young to remember much of it except the funeral, and even then he didn't know the circumstances of the death; he'd been told that his grandmother had simply gone to visit God in Heaven - the typical excuses.

"In my opinion, the best method would be to enter her in one of the Moffitt trials."

"Moffitt?" said Datuk. The name had rung a bell from somewhere, even if he couldn't remember where.

"The H. Lee Moffitt Cancer Centre. It's running an experimental trial relating to gene therapy that they hope will provide a reliable treatment for lung and pancreatic cancer. With your permission, I would like to try to get Ashley into this trial. However, it may take some time. If you don't want to wait, I can schedule her for radiation therapy with our radiologists."

"Radiation therapy?" asked Sam, opening his eyes and grabbing his wife's hand. "What would that entail?"

"It would be via external beam radiotherapy, using megavoltage X-rays – those ranging from one to twenty-five megavolts in power. Effectively, the radiation would mutate the cancerous cells such that they could no longer reproduce. If the therapy is successful, it will damage the cells sufficiently to prevent them from spreading further, and so we can eliminate them at our leisure."

"Can't you do both?" broke in Datuk.

"I'm afraid not," the doctor said apologetically. "The radiation use would cause serious problems for the gene therapy program, so it is unfortunately one or the other. I'll give you some time alone to discuss it." As he left, Datuk sat down heavily in one of the chairs by his mother's bedside, burying his head in his hands; Sam walked to the bedside table, taking a short drink from the glass of water sitting there.

"Radiation therapy, dad. Who knows, maybe she'll become a superhero."

Sam gave Datuk a sad little smile, he knew he was trying to lighten the mood. "Like one of the X-Men, right?" He heaved a sigh, looking at his wife's face, still so peaceful. "No, I think this gene therapy trial might give her the best shot. Everything I've heard about radiation use has seemed…"

"Risky?"

Sam nodded. "Risky."

"Do you think the trial's going to cost much?"

"I hope not, this place is expensive enough as it is. And just between you and me," Sam gestured for his son to come closer, "the company's not doing well. It's breaking even, but I need one big score to recoup some of our personal losses. How's your job search coming along?"

Datuk exhaled through his teeth. "Not well. I don't have any experience except that stuff I did with you over the summer, and no-one wants to hire someone with no experience."

"Then how are you supposed to get anywhere in life? Just because I'm your father shouldn't make it any less relevant!" said Sam incredulously. Sam co-owned and operated Rolling Thunder Productions, an independent film company, and had half a stake in it with his long-time friend Harry Neil. RTP had had some success early in its life with "Eight Things To Do Before You Die", but it's follow-up, "Pilot's License", flopped badly and took a large chunk of the RTP's finance with it. Sam had to reach into his own account to keep it from going under, but the situation was only exacerbated by Harry selling his share of the company to Miramax; they were pressuring Sam into selling his share as well, but so far Sam had held out for an offer that was greater than the amount he'd spent on the company himself. It wasn't going well.

"I know, I know. I can't understand it myself."

---

"_Excedrin headache number one…"_ was the first thought to float through Leslie's throbbing head, but it was followed swiftly by _"What happened to me?" _and _"The truck!" _When the truck had hit him, it had sent him flying to the side of the road, where he lay in a bank of fresh snow; he could hear the truck driver talking to someone through his cellphone, and it didn't look like he'd noticed Leslie was still even alive.

"Yeah, I need an ambulance and a tow truck at the corner o-holy shit!" The driver stared wide-eyed as Leslie pulled himself back to his feet, seemingly unhurt. "You...you can cancel the ambulance, I just need a tow truck. Corner of Hanson Street." Snapping shut the phone, the trucker grabbed Leslie's arm before he slipped on the snow and fell. "How did you do that?"

"Did what?" replied Leslie a little woozily. The trucker gestured back at his overturned truck.

"I hit you, but you're not even hurt!"

"Got lucky, I guess."

"That can't be luck, kid, that would have killed anyone else! You hit a tree!" Picking his bag back up, Leslie looked back at the tree, then down at himself - aside from a few rips in his shirt, he was otherwise unharmed. He could only shrug, it was as much of a mystery to him as it was to the trucker.

"Someone up there must like me."

---

With the warning about the Russians still fresh in his mind, Eric carried the pistol he'd been given before with him. Even with his dangerous line of work, he never felt very threatened in the New York streets, but the mention of the Mafiya had spooked him; a rare occurrence with all the things he'd seen in the past. He normally stopped for a drink or eight at one of the seedier bars – the sort of place where anybody could drink and nobody would bat an eyelid – but today he just wasn't in the mood. Shivering in the sudden cold snap that had taken over the city, he stuck his hands in his pockets and walked quickly through the maze of alleyways. His apartment was in one of the blocks the Costas had influence over – simply for safety, as the actual quality of the place was not high, and so it just made sense to keep the money from his loan sharking activities close by. Still, he couldn't help but feel much less at home.

His gut was partly right. Somebody was indeed after him, but it was not the Russians.

"C'mere, lad, what's the hurry?" came the soft Irish brogue, accompanied by the unmistakable force of a gun barrel being pushed into his back. Eric contemplated going for the gun in his breast pocket, or running, but it would be a bad idea, no doubt about that; he wasn't even close to being competent with it, he'd been caught in a dead end and the footfalls suggested there was more than one man behind him.

"Take your hands out of your pockets, slowly," ordered the man with the gun. "And turn around." Eric could only comply - with luck, they'd only demand money and not take his life as well.

"You've had quite a little cottage industry, haven't you Mr. Donahue?" said the man as Eric turned. It was just as he'd been afraid of - the men cornering him were part of the Irish Mafia. The man talking he recognised, but the two others with him he knew only by reputation; they were the McQuaid brothers, notorious throughout the New York underworld for the sheer brutality of their actions. It was often said that if they had a contract on you, they would give you a warning beforehand and so give you a chance to kill yourself painlessly.

"I like to think so. You are?" asked Eric, trying to keep his cool persona up.

"My name's not important, and you presumably know my associates already."

Eric cast a glance to both brothers, then returned to the original man. "What can I do for you gentlemen?"

"Well, Mr. Donahue," began the original man. That was as far as he got because Eric rushed at him in desperation, pushing him down; he slipped out of the grasp of one of the brothers, but the other caught hold of his arm and drove a fist straight into his gut. Getting back to his feet and brushing himself down, the original man scowled at Eric.

"That," he continued, "was a very stupid thing to do, Mr. Donahue. Our orders were only to rough you up and send a message to your employers, but I don't personally think we'll be in too much trouble if we just send you to an early grave." He cocked the pistol he'd taken from Eric's inside pocket, and put it to his forehead. "What do you think?"

BOOM.


End file.
